The Black, Burlap Sack

Once upon a time, deep in the bowels of a dark, dark forest lived a tired old woman and her thirteen children. In a cottage hardly fit for a family of five the weary mother pored over a simmering pot, the family’s frugal evening meal. The acrid odor of frogweed soup was oppressive and smothering, soaking the entire cottage in the stench.

“Mother,” said Marsette, her eldest child.

“Yes, my daughter?” she wearily replied.

“Jethro is not well,” explained she. “He has been stricken with the black spots, under his chin, behind his ears, across his chest, covered all over with bulbous welts, pregnant with pus.”

Ceasing her preparation of the meager supper, she faced her daughter with stern eye, a glimmer of sadness rolling down her cheek.

She spoke clearly and firmly: “You understand what you must do, daughter of mine—“ and turned to hide her tears.

“Mother, I bear hope,” Marsette spoke softly. “I’ve heard of an herb, though a mere rumor it may be. Deeper in the woods is where it grows.”

Giving her eldest daughter a grim smile, she told her that she should leave soon. As she watched Marsette scuttle off, she couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride that her daughter still held hope in her heart. She is still young, thought the mother. She has not learned the bitter truth, but I will let her keep her hope for now. One day she will understand that hope is for the wistful dreamers and poets.

Bundled in a thick coat, handkerchief around her head too, to fight off the cold, Marsette trundled into the forest, following an old path to the parts of the forest she was not allowed to go as a younger child. Evening was fading into night, but this deep within the forest, amidst the odious rotten vegetation and swamps stewing in their own execrable waste, light was hardly seen at all. There was a general feeling of uneasiness about this area of the forest; a jittery kind of fear that causes one to jump at the slightest creak or snap.

Marsette walked slowly, a lantern held out in front of her, scaring away any monsters which might wish to jump out at her (because monsters and creatures of the night alike fear light—it is detestable to them, as they thrive on darkness and the unknown, and light makes bright all things unclear).

Branches snagged at her clothing, and she walked quicker. They became more menacing and swung out at her legs, hoping to catch her, but she quickened her pace and began to trail off of the path. Soon, she found herself irrevocably lost. She had not the faintest clue how to discover which direction she was heading.

Presently, she entered an area completely cleared of trees and saw for the first time, the shining silver orb hanging in the twilight. Entranced, she stumbled and fell on her bottom in the dirt. She basked in the moonlight, enamored, for quite some time, until it became obscured by clouds. At that point, she started and realized that she still had no idea how far away the mysterious grove was. With unfeigned reluctance she departed and disappeared in the shadows of the trees. It was not long before she rediscovered the path and knew that she could not have wandered far in the first place. From time to time, she lifted her head trying to peer through the thick foliage for the moon once again.

Shortly, she came upon a dilapidated bridge, which she feared to cross lest the planks break beneath her feet. Marsette tiptoed down to the foot of the bridge. The water running underneath was not deep, but too wide to jump; and when she shown the lantern on it, it appeared brackish and dark, a stream of thick, gelatinous muck. It glurped and slithered and turned Marsette’s stomach. She decided to chance the bridge and stepped as lightly as possible onto the rotting wood. It was slippery and a coating of slime came off when she picked her foot back up. The wood gave in just a bit when she put all of her weight onto it, but her feet did not break through.

Once across, she threw a backward glance and smiled victoriously. Ahead, the trail wound around a particularly thick clump of foliage, veiling what was yet to come. She walked for what seemed forever until, in the distance, she thought she saw the shape of a hunchbacked man. Closer inspection proved the hump to be a coarse burlap sack slumped over his shoulder. The bottom of the bag was mottled in places by dampness and stains, dripping filthy greasiness. The owner appeared genial enough, dressed from head to toe in a dark cloak as thick and coarse as the sack he carried. His visage was one of waxy paleness, like that of a misshapen candle; benign expression on his ghostly face suggested that he posed no threat.

Marsette politely approached and asked if he knew where to find a certain herb capable of curing the black spots with which her brother was afflicted. He seemed not to hear her, as his vacant eyes moved not in her direction. Moment passed, and she asked again, this time lightly tugging on his sleeve. The material grated against her skin as if made from cactus prickles. Slowly, ever so slowly, his face turned toward hers, and his empty blues captured her adventurous browns. Struck with the utter nothingness glaring inside of her, she started. He motioned her closer with a thin, clammy claw. She did as commanded and brought the lantern up. He reached into his cloak, and between thumb and forefinger appeared a shiny brass key. She took it into her hand, and an ages-old castle sprung up from the swamp, surrounded by a barred gate. Marsette slid the key into the ancient lock and was soon inside the castle grounds.

She easily found the herb growing in an enormous garden, soaking in the great, luminous moonlight; that beaming face both delightful yet portending mystery and devious deeds. Admiration for whom she now believed was the true Creator swept over Marsette. O! sweet moonlit masquerade, how you filled her with such an overwhelming urge to dance. Casting one last, long look at the moon, she discovered a spade and dug up the plant and, carrying it close to her bosom, departed the grove and re-met the gatekeeper.

She thanked him endlessly. She returned the key.

He silently restored the key within the folds of his cloak.

Marsette commenced to return as quickly as possible, cure in hand. But chilled flesh restrained her. She turned round and ogled the gatekeeper, whose hand remained perched around her wrist.

She suddenly understood the price she had to pay for her brother’s life.

“One life for another.”

He opened his black, burlap sack. Marsette became aware of her destiny when the contents became visible. She was to join those who had come before her, and her brother was to live. A leg became discernable, then an arm and a head and another leg and a hand with only three fingers. Every intense odor; it rank of decay. Microorganisms feasted on micro-microorganisms. A greenish paddy of mold stretched like a continent along the inside. Her small body was added to the mutilated corpses within that black, burlap sack.